


one for the road

by flowermasters



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Background Relationships, Developing Relationship, F/M, McCall Pack, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, POV Female Character, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Lydia go on a cross-country road trip to outrun the zombie apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one for the road

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been kind of absent until recently, but here I am with a big ol' Stydia zombie AU! Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings for: Stiles/Lydia, background or implied Scott/Kira and Allison/Isaac, minor character death, angst, violence, lots of zombie AU tropes, some language. But fear not, there's happy times ahead, too!
> 
> Side note: This is canon-compliant until the end of 3A, but I chose not to mention any of the events of 3B, as it's currently still in progress and I hate being jossed. Super lame title comes from 'One for the Road' by Arctic Monkeys.

Looking back on it all, Lydia thinks it's pretty ironic. They - they being the McCall pack, she supposes, their ragtag band of supernaturally-inclined friends - managed to survive so much. Dark druids and murderous alpha werewolves and giant, homicidal lizards . . . but when it comes to zombies, their entire world collapses around them and there's nothing they can do to stop it. But saving Beacon Hills is one thing, Lydia supposes; they can't save the world. Saving themselves might be hard enough at this rate.

Lydia's mother shakes her out of her thoughts by grabbing her hand and dragging her along at an even faster pace; Lydia is already struggling to push through the crowd, but maintaining this speed is nearly impossible. "Mom," Lydia says, raising her voice to be heard over the din of a hundred desperate souls. "Mom, we're not going to get on the plane any faster, so you might as well stop _pulling_."

Craning her neck to see over the heads of the people around her - ah, the curse of being only 5'3" - Lydia tries to estimate how long it's going to take for everyone to pile into this plane, if they'll all actually fit. She and her parents are in the middle of the group, and the uniformed police officers (what remains of Beacon Hills' finest) and the handful of soldiers at the front of the crowd are struggling to herd everyone into a somewhat orderly mass. This is evac group 3, boarding the last planned flight from Beacon Hills to New York City; if Lydia and her parents don't make it onto this plane, they will most likely be stuck here in Beacon Hills for good. With the government in a state of almost total collapse, it's safer to be on the opposite side of the country than out here, in what has essentially become wild country. Granted, their odds of surviving for much longer are slim either way - and long-term survival is a pipe dream at this point, no matter where they end up.

The last thing Lydia remembers before all hell breaks loose is seeing a few familiar faces up ahead - Melissa McCall nimbly climbs the stairs and disappears into the plane, with Scott and Isaac in tow; Lydia feels a faint sense of relief at the knowledge that at least  _some_  of her friends have a shot. They haven't exactly hung out much in the past few months, given everything that's happened, but at least the McCalls and Isaac are safe. Lydia's looking around, searching for more of her friends - the Stilinskis, the Argents, Danny, anyone - when, at the back of the crowd, someone lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

Seconds later, more screams follow, but Lydia can't see what's going on - then, a tall man next to her yells something about the undead, and Lydia feels icy cold terror seize her. Predictably, it doesn't take more than a couple of seconds for complete and total pandemonium to take hold; Lydia knows enough about animal biology to know that this sort of reaction is to be expected. People start pushing and shoving, desperately trying to make it to the plane, or even just trying to get away from the zombies. Someone slams into Lydia from behind, knocking her away from her mother - Lydia screams out for her, but she's already disappeared into the crowd. While Lydia spins around, looking futilely for her parents, someone else runs into her with twice the force of the first person, and she falls forward, ramming into people who, in turn, push and shove her back, each desperately trying to survive and hardly caring who they hit.

Miraculously, Lydia stays on her feet - falling now means certain injury and the possibility of death by stampede - but her bag goes flying. Lydia could care less at this point; she just needs to make it to the plane. However, she can't hope to fight the crowd - she is being pushed farther and farther towards the outskirts. She's lost in a blur of faces and screams and tangled limbs, and all she knows is that she's being slowly forced farther away from the plane that will take her to safety. It's then that she catches sight of the zombies.

There are so many of them, and they're so  _close_. Lydia has seen the undead before, but never this close - they're so close she can smell their rotting flesh. It's immediately obvious why they're here, even though it's broad daylight and they're supposedly less active during the day; they have been attracted by the noise and commotion, like predators to noisy and foolish prey. Lydia is getting closer and closer to being their next victim, unwillingly propelled towards them by the force of the roiling crowd.

One gets near enough to her to make a jerky grab for her, and Lydia doesn't think, she just opens her mouth and  _screams_ , louder than she ever has before. The unearthly shriek sends the zombie backwards and causes the people closest to her, probably deafened by the noise, to panic even more. It's at this point that Lydia really loses track of what's going on around her, because all she can think is  _run. Get away_. For someone who values logic and reason so much, complete and utter terror is a disorienting thing; Lydia doesn't know what to do, so she just follows her instinct and starts running. She runs  _away_ , with no particular destination in mind, screaming all the while, and she doesn't stop until she can't run anymore.

When she finally calms down a bit, she realizes that she's standing in the middle of a deserted street. Her breath coming out in broken, sobbing huffs, she looks around, searching for a landmark or a street sign - she realizes that she's four blocks away from the lot where the plane is. Still too close to the zombies for comfort, but with her last hope of escaping Beacon Hills out of her reach. She lets out a loud sob, then covers her mouth with one hand, forcing herself to take in deep, steadying breaths through her nose. After a moment, she starts walking again, unwilling to stand and wait for a zombie to come along and find her.

She makes it another block before she hears the sound of tires on asphalt behind her. She whirls around, instinctively taking several steps back to get out of the car's path - and then she sees that it's a very familiar blue Jeep approaching her. A nearly indescribable feeling hits Lydia like a freight train - it's equal parts relief and regret (why couldn't Stiles have made it out of Beacon Hills? Why did he have to be doomed, too?)

"Stiles!" she shrieks, waving her arms. The jeep slams to a halt, brakes screeching. Stiles is out of the car in seconds, sprinting towards her, blessedly alive even if his odds are now just as low as Lydia's. Lydia doesn't even think about it - she runs into his arms, pressing her face into his chest and, to her embarrassment, letting out a noise that's half a sob, half a strangled wail. Stiles clings to her for a moment, stroking at her face and hair like he can't believe she's still alive and in one piece. Lydia can't really believe it, either, but she doesn't have a whole lot of time to waste on disbelief. "Stiles, what - what are you doing -?"

"Looking for you," he says, a little breathlessly, and she gives him a confused look.

"I - I was looking for my dad," he elaborates, "and I thought I heard you screaming, so I came looking for you."

It's foolish and totally not of importance right now, but Lydia's heart swells a little at those words, even if she'll never admit it. Sweet, brave Stiles, who traveled zombie-infested streets to look for her - in another world, another lifetime, Lydia could have kissed him for it. Right now, it's another thing that they just don't have time for.

"Were you at the evac site?" Stiles asks. When she nods, he continues, "You're getting louder. I was a whole block away and I just heard this -  _wail_ , and I knew it was you. I thought that you - that you would be dead by the time I found you."

"I thought I was going to die, too," Lydia admits, her voice shaking slightly. She takes in a steadying breath, then says, "Stiles, you have to get out of here. There are zombies - they're not that far away . . ."

"I'm not leaving you here," he says, his hand falling from its position on her cheek (how strange, she hadn't cared - or even really noticed - that he'd been holding her this entire time) to her arm. He takes her gently by the elbow and leads her towards the jeep. "Come on."

While they're in the jeep, Lydia relays an abbreviated version of what happened at the evacuation site. Stiles listens, his jaw tense. When she finishes, he says, "So, you saw Scott and his mom? And Isaac?"

Lydia nods. "They made it onto the plane."

Stiles glances at her. "Did you, um, happen to see my dad there?"

Lydia meets his gaze. Her heart aches for him, but she knows that if his father has been missing for any substantial amount of time, he's most likely dead - or undead, and really, that's no different at all. "No. I didn't."

Stiles's gaze flicks back to the road ahead. He's heading towards her house, she notes. "I just, uh, thought he might be there, helping with the evacuation."

"How long has he been gone?" Lydia asks, her voice quiet.

"Since yesterday afternoon."

Lydia swallows hard. She can tell Stiles is still holding on to hope that his father is out there somewhere, alive, and she doesn't have the heart to tell him that the odds of that are next to none. The sheriff would never abandon his son, or even leave him alone for long without a reason - that means that there's only one explanation, and she's sure that it's not something Stiles wants to hear.

Stiles pulls into Lydia's driveway then, and he's barely stopped the car before Lydia hops out and hurries up the path to the front door. It's locked (not that it really matters, because if someone wanted to break in, the alarm system no longer works), but Lydia retrieves the spare key from under the mat, unlocks the door, and walks inside. "Mom?" she calls, hoping against hope that her parents have somehow made it home. "Dad?"

There's no answer, and Lydia knows, instinctively, that the house is empty. She should have expected as much. If her parents are walking home, it will take them some time to cover the distance between the evac site and the house, so there's really no way for them to have made it home this fast. (Their cars have long since run out of gas; she suspects the only reason Stiles has any in the jeep is because he's been hoarding it, or because he's been siphoning gas from other cars.) Of course, they might not be walking home. They might be zombie food right now - or worse, they might have been bitten, and they're suffering, slowly dying only to be reborn as monsters -

A hand touches her shoulder then, and she gasps, startled. It's just Stiles, she realizes, cursing herself for freaking out. (Then again, it's hard not to be jumpy when the stuff of nightmares roam the streets.) Lydia reaches up to wipe at her eyes, and Stiles says, "Your parents aren't here?"

Lydia shakes her head. "Well, don't assume the worst," Stiles says. His words say different, but his eyes says he's assuming the worst. "We can hang around here for a while, see if they turn up."

Lydia's a little unsure when exactly they became a 'we', but then she realizes that Stiles has no one. Absolutely no one. His father is missing ( _dead_ , she thinks, although she still doesn't want to say it out loud for fear of hurting him) and Scott is on his way to safety (relatively speaking), assuming the plane made it off the ground. Isaac and Ms. McCall are with Scott, and God only knows where any of their other friends are by now. Stiles has nobody left to take care of (nobody left to take care of him, either), and if Lydia's parents are dead, then the same goes for her. Of course they're a 'we' now.

They wait together until nightfall, and with every moment that passes, Lydia can feel her hope for her parents slipping away. If they haven't made it home by now - Lydia can't bring herself to think about odds anymore. They aren't coming home, plain and simple.

Around eight-thirty, according to Lydia's watch, Stiles starts to stand up from the couch. He hasn't moved in several hours (neither has she, except to get up and light some candles), and Lydia doesn't even think about what she's doing as she reaches out to catch his arm. "Where are you going?" she asks. She realizes she sounds a little desperate, but for a split second she is so terribly afraid of being alone that she can't control it. She won't last all by herself in this big house - she knows that even if she survives, her will to live and her sanity will slowly begin to slip away if she's left completely alone.

Stiles hesitates. "You want me to stay?" he says, slowly sinking back down onto the couch. Lydia would have figured that, what with the world coming to an end and all, he'd have stopped being so surprised when someone (besides Scott) actually pays attention to him, but apparently some things never change.

She nods, and then, just like that, changes the subject. "Are you hungry?"

Of course he is - everyone's always hungry nowadays. Food is scarce unless you're undead. Lydia digs up a pack of peanut butter crackers for both of them, plus a bottle of water for them to share. It's not much, but Lydia's learned that it's easier to pretend you're not hungry when you have snacks every few hours, as opposed to a few "meals". After dinner, there's not really a whole lot for them to do except go to bed; there's no sense wasting time sitting around when they could be getting valuable sleep.

Lydia knows that Stiles would sleep on the couch or the floor if she told him to, but she's not cold enough for that anymore. Stiles would give her the clothes off his back in a heartbeat if necessary, and she can't lie and pretend that she wouldn't return the favor. She takes him by the arm and leads him to her room, then gestures to her bed. "You can sleep with me. Take your shoes off, though."

"Where do you think I was raised, a barn?" Stiles asks, with a faint smile. She smiles back, albeit rather weakly.

She moves to her closet and retrieves a pair of shorts and a tank top to sleep in, and he respectfully turns around once he realizes what she's about to do. When he turns his back, she actually does smile - a real smile, for the first time in who knows how long. He's seen her naked before (it feels like a whole lifetime ago) and God knows how badly he probably wants to again (she's not a fool, she knows that Stiles still loves her), but even now, with the constant threat of death hanging over his head, he's still polite enough to turn around.

They lie down at first with Stiles facing one way and Lydia facing the other, but that feels awkward, so Lydia rolls over and faces his back. In the dim light of the room (she's got a candle lit on the bedside table; it's not safe, but burning the house down really isn't a concern anymore, if she's being completely honest), she can just barely see the side of his face.

If someone had told her a year ago that someday she'd be sleeping side by side with Stiles Stilinski - that Stiles would be the only person left for her to count on - she probably would have laughed in their face. But now, given everything that's happened since - kanimas, druids, werewolves, and now zombies - it doesn't seem so ridiculous anymore. In fact, it doesn't seem very ridiculous at all.

Lydia wakes up the next morning to an empty bed, although since Stiles's beat-up Converse are still on the floor nearby, he can't have gone far. Lydia still follows a ghostly imitation of her old morning routine - it's pointless, really, but anything that makes the world still feel sort-of normal is okay in her book. She ends up in high-waisted denim shorts and a flowery tank-top, plus a pair of gladiator sandals. It's not an outfit that screams 'running for your life' or 'living with no power and no running water', but the few clothes that she owns that are suited to this life are in her bag at the evacuation site ( _and possibly buried under corpses by now_ , she thinks darkly.)

When she goes downstairs, she finds Stiles in the kitchen. He's nibbling from another pack of crackers, and when he sees her, he gives her a surprised smile. "You look . . . nice."

Lydia rolls her eyes, although she can't help but smile. Stiles probably hasn't seen anyone that didn't look half-dead in quite a while, so it's not much of a compliment. Besides, he always thinks she looks nice, even when she doesn't; she finds that quality rather sweet, however. "Thanks," she says, retrieving crackers for herself and sitting down across from him at the table.

Stiles doesn't waste much time, she notes. "I think we should go to the evac site," he says. He offers her his bottle of water then, and she accepts it even as she gives him a strange look.

"Why?" she asks. "I think the whole 'evacuation' thing is a lost cause at this point."

"Maybe not," Stiles says, with a shrug. He's trying very hard to be optimistic, she notes, even though it disagrees with his nature. She and Stiles are always the ones who realize what's going to go wrong and prepare for it - so seeing Stiles clinging to hope, even when it's pointless, is a little disorienting. "We might even find your parents. Or my dad."

The mention of Lydia's parents hits her like a punch to the gut, and she says hollowly, "Yeah, we might find their bodies."

Stiles's adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. Still, he continues. "It's worth a shot, Lydia. And we've got my jeep, so no worries about getting away if we have to."

Lydia wants to keep arguing, but instead, she sighs and gives in. If anything, driving to the evac site might provide Stiles with a reality check. And who knows, they might find an authority figure there, who can tell them what to do or get them some help. "Alright, fine."

After their breakfast (if it can even be called breakfast), they head to the evac site. Lydia doesn't want to think about what they'll find when they get there. She doesn't want to think about yesterday's events at all, if she can - remembering that panic, that sheer and utter terror, is not something she ever wants to do again. It's already going to haunt her dreams for the rest of her (probably short) life.

The area seems deserted from a distance, but Lydia has learned to take most appearances with a grain of salt. The evac site is a large, vacant lot on the outskirts of town - there aren't many places to hide, but still, zombies could be lurking anywhere. As soon as Stiles parks the car and shuts off the engine, Lydia is struck with a sudden, all-too-familiar feeling - a cold sensation in her chest that reminds her, inexplicably, of the cool interior of a tomb. Once again, Lydia feels like she's standing in a graveyard.

Stiles glances over at her, one hand resting on the door handle. "You okay?" he asks.

"Fine," Lydia says, the hollow note returning to her voice. "Let's go."

The first thing Lydia realizes is that there's blood, lots and lots of it, all over the ground. There aren't a whole lot of bodies, though - the zombies took care of that. Every zombie around must have come through here, Lydia realizes, like it was some sort of buffet. Lydia wants to turn around and go back to the jeep - she's seen enough nightmare fuel already, thank you very much - but Stiles just keeps walking, his expression transfixed, so she follows him, carefully sidestepping blood-saturated patches of grass as they approach the center of the carnage.

All it takes is one cursory glance to realize that they're the only two living people in the vicinity. The plane is gone, so Lydia assumes that if anyone survived this bloodbath, they're long gone as well. Still, Stiles keeps glancing around as if he expects something to change, the look in his eyes getting more and more desperate by the moment. Just then, Lydia catches sight of something on the ground - it's her bag, looking considerably worse for wear but miraculously still intact. She bends down to pick it up and quickly rifles through it, trying to assess the damage to the contents. The clothes inside are worth saving, so she shoulders the bag, trying to ignore the small, mysterious bloodstain on the front of it. It's then that she notices Stiles. He's about fifteen feet away from her at this point, and he's kneeling and looking at something on the ground. She watches him for several seconds, but he remains stock-still. Uh-oh.

Lydia approaches him slowly, and when she's about five feet away, she realizes what he's looking at. It's an olive green coat - well, it's what's left of one. It's shredded and dirty and bloodstained, and leaves little to the imagination about what probably happened to the wearer. When Lydia steps even closer, she sees what has undoubtedly garnered Stiles's attention - the badge on the shoulder. It reads in firm block letters:  _Stilinski._

"Stiles?" she says, her voice hushed. It really does feel like she's standing in a graveyard now; this is the only memorial Sheriff Stilinski will ever get, after all. When Stiles tilts his head to look up at her, his eyes brimming with tears, Lydia immediately covers the short distance between them. It's almost instinct; Stiles is falling apart, and she's the only one here to see it. She's going to have to put the pieces of him back together. She drops to her knees beside him, and rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. He moves towards her almost immediately, tucking his face into the crook of her neck, and she puts her arms around him, comforting him in the only way she knows how.

She feels his shaky breaths against her neck, his tears gently staining the strap of her top. She doesn't know how long she holds him like that, but it awakens something in her, something fiercely protective. She's felt it this strongly before, when she watched a lit flare slowly roll towards a puddle of gasoline - that time, she had thrown her body against his, so desperate to save him that she almost forgot she'd been leaping towards an explosion. This time, though, she just holds him while he grieves, and that's enough.

Some primal sense, a tingling on the back of her neck, tells her that there's someone behind her. She turns her head slowly, trying not to startle Stiles, but when her eyes land on the zombie ten yards away, she knows he feels the way her entire body tenses up at once. He lifts his head and then follows her gaze with his own. "What - ?" he begins hoarsely, but the rest of the sentence dies on his lips when he realizes what she's looking at.

The zombie hasn't noticed them yet, which is a miracle; if it had, they'd probably be dead or bitten by now. Perhaps it just hasn't seen them yet, and maybe their scent has been masked by the smell of death clouding the air. It's just wandering aimlessly, staring straight ahead with dull, empty eyes. Lydia thinks that maybe, if they stand up very slowly, it won't notice them. After that, however, she's not sure what to do, because if they run, they'll be spotted for sure. She supposes they'll just have to run fast.

Stiles's voice pulls her out of her thoughts. "Lydia," he says, suddenly much too loud for comfort, "Lydia - get up -,"

He's looking in a different direction from her now, and she sees why; there's another zombie, and this one is approaching rapidly - if its stiff legs would allow it to, it would be sprinting. Lydia is on her feet in an instant, dragging Stiles up with her thanks to the death grip she has on his t-shirt. But then she freezes, transfixed, because this is a very familiar-looking zombie. Aside from the ashen complexion, yellowed eyes, gaping maw of a mouth, and the dried blood caked on one half of his face - she would know him anywhere. She's been friends with him since middle school, after all.

"Danny," she says, her voice weak.

"Lydia, we have to  _go_ ," Stiles says, with a panicked tone in his voice that says he is seriously considering just dragging her back to the jeep if she doesn't start moving soon. Lydia tears her eyes away from the zombie approaching them - it's only about twenty feet away now, and still coming - and nods. Stiles grabs her hand then, and they take off back to the jeep. Lydia can hear the heavy, thudding footfalls of the zombies following them, but she doesn't dare look back. They practically throw themselves into the jeep - Stiles doesn't even bother to shut his door before he's cramming the key into the ignition. Lydia's pretty sure she doesn't start breathing again until they've sped off, leaving huge divots on the grassy lot.

A lump starts forming in her throat as soon as they lose sight of the zombies.  _Danny_ , she thinks,  _Danny, I'm so sorry_. As painful as it is, Lydia hopes that the real Danny is dead, not trapped somewhere in the mind of a living nightmare. That would be a fate too terrible to bear.

Stiles is driving way too fast, but it's not like there are any cops left in town to pull them over. The streets are deserted, terrifyingly so. Everyone is either dead, gone, or a zombie. Lydia's sure that there must be survivors besides herself and Stiles, but they're doing a very good job of hiding - they're all holed up in their houses, living meal-to-meal, sunset to sundown, waiting out death for as long as they possibly can.

When Lydia looks over at Stiles, she sees that he's crying again, his lips pressed together hard in a failing effort to stay stoic. His hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that she's surprised his fingers haven't cramped yet. "Stiles," she says, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Slow down." He'll wreck if he's not careful, and if he doesn't kill them, he'll damage their only means of transportation, and Lydia's not about to let that happen.

To her surprise, he listens to her, gradually letting off the gas and applying the brakes until finally, they roll to a halt in the middle of the street. He puts the car in park, shifting gears with a hand that's shaking visibly, and then wipes at his eyes. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she says. After a moment's hesitation, she says, "I'm sorry about your dad." The sheriff was a good man, she knows. He and Stiles had a close relationship, much closer than Lydia had ever had with her parents, so she's sure that Stiles is feeling double the grief she's dealing with right now.

"I was supposed to be there," Stiles says after a moment, staring out the windshield at nothing in particular. His tone is empty, and only the thick quality of his voice proves how upset he really is. "At the evac site."

Lydia gives him a confused look. "What?"

"My dad told me to go with Scott and Melissa," Stiles elaborates, reaching up to absentmindedly run a hand through his messy hair. "He said he'd come with us; he just had to keep everything in order til the evacuation. But I got worried when he never showed up to come with us to the evac site. So I told Scott that I'd meet him there and went looking for my dad and . . . it turns out he was there all along." Stiles pauses, then adds, "My dad probably died thinking that I wasn't there. Knowing that I hadn't listened to him. If I had just gone with Scott like I was supposed to, he . . . he would have gotten on the plane with us."

"Stiles, it's not your fault," Lydia says immediately. "You had no way of knowing -,"

"I should have just listened," Stiles cuts her off, shaking his head and blinking back fresh tears. "He told me to stay with them and I didn't listen . . ."

"Look, I know it hurts, okay? But I was there. I saw those zombies start grabbing people left and right. Even if you'd been there, your dad might not have made it on the plane in time. He might have died doing his job, which was to protect other people. Stiles,  _it is not your fault_ ," Lydia says firmly, silencing all of his protests with a look. "And you know what? You saved me yesterday. I was out on the streets by myself - I could have run into a pack of zombies at any time, and I could have  _died_. But you heard me scream and you found me."

Stiles is quiet for a moment, mulling over her little speech. She knows it can't even begin to combat the grief he's feeling, but she won't sit here and listen to him drown himself in guilt another minute longer. They've got to keep moving, because if they don't, sadness and fear and bitterness will slowly eat away at them until they can't stand it any longer. Lydia doesn't want to know what will happen if they both reach the point of no return. "You know what we're going to do?" Lydia says, making up her mind right then and there. "We're going to find someone. At least one of our friends is still alive. We might have lost your dad, and my parents, and Danny, but we are going to find someone. There's strength in numbers, and all that jazz."

Stiles just looks at her for a second. "You know, you can be really persuasive when you want to."

"I'm aware," Lydia says, relaxing back into her seat again. She notices, then, that they are not completely alone. Five zombies are slowly making their way up the street ahead of them. Lydia doesn't know if they have the cognitive abilities to tell that the car is occupied, but she doesn't want to find out. "Shit. Stiles, drive."

Stiles throws the car into reverse and does a sloppy three-point turn in the middle of the street, narrowly avoiding a collision with an abandoned SUV on the side of the road. The zombies react to the jeep's sudden movement and attempt to give chase, but there's no way they can run down a moving vehicle. Stiles asks, his gaze flicking between the rear-view mirror and the road ahead, "Where to first?"

"Allison's apartment," Lydia decides. She wouldn't mind having Allison and Mr. Argent on her team, considering their skills with weaponry - plus, she misses her best friend. "You know how to get there?"

Stiles does indeed know how to get there, not that Lydia had expected anything less of him. When they pull up to Allison's building, Lydia realizes that the whole place looks abandoned, but she doesn't give up hope just yet. Stiles retrieves his baseball bat from the backseat, and together, they walk into the building and up the stairs to Allison's apartment.

The smell of decomposing flesh is almost overpowering in the corridor outside Allison's apartment, and it immediately becomes clear why; someone has killed a zombie and left the body behind to rot completely. Lydia grimaces and avoids looking at it, worried that she might recognize it the same way she recognized Danny, but Stiles says, "It was shot dead center of the forehead. With an arrow."

"Allison," Lydia says, nodding, and reaches up to knock firmly on the front door. There's no response, and Lydia tries again, pounding her fist on the wood until Stiles reaches up and grabs her arm to stop her.

"I don't think anyone's home," Stiles says.

"Someone was home recently, assuming Allison shot that thing," Lydia points out, raising her eyebrows. She still refuses to look at it, so she can't gauge how long it's been decomposing, but surely it can't be  _that_  old.

"Maybe they left," Stiles says. "Or . . ."

Lydia doesn't wait for him to finish that sentence before leaning down and lifting up the welcome mat. It's one of the most common places to leave a spare key, but the Argents are hardly the average family. She stands on tiptoe and tries the top of the door frame, but all she gets is a handful of dust for her trouble. If she had a bobby pin on her, she could pick the lock, but alas, she doesn't have much reason to worry about her hair anymore. Next, she gives Stiles a speculative look, trying to calculate whether he's heavy enough to force the door open. Stiles can already tell where her train of thought is headed, and he sighs before taking several steps back and waving his arm to indicate that she should move out of the way. She steps to the side and watches as he runs full-speed towards the door, shoulder braced accordingly. He slams into the wooden door with a loud thud and flies backwards with a sharp yelp of pain.

"Are you alright?" Lydia asks, bending over slightly to look at him and offering him her hand. He clambers to his feet, grimacing.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I can try again, if you want."

"We'll do it together."

"Are you sure? Because that kind of hurt. Like, a lot."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "I can handle it."

Together, they manage to force the door open, although Lydia ends up nursing a bruised shoulder and Stiles's arm is probably going to be sore for a couple of days. The apartment is empty of people or corpses, although it does have the general atmosphere of being recently lived in.

Lydia's poking around Allison's room for any clues about how long they may have been gone when Stiles calls to her from somewhere down the hall. "All their weapons are gone," Stiles shouts. "Right down to the last silver bullet."

"Not all of them," Lydia replies, bending down to pick up one of Allison's Chinese ring daggers from where it lies, forgotten, on the floor next to Allison's bed. Well, at least now she knows that Allison is probably alive, since she and her father have all their weapons with them, wherever they are. Lydia decides to hang on to the dagger, just in case she needs it.

Stiles appears in the doorway then. "Where do we go now?" he asks.

Lydia sighs quietly and looks over at him, raising her eyebrows slightly. As if he's reading her mind, Stiles says, "No point in going to Derek's. Scott went by the loft weeks ago - Derek left for South America to go get Cora."

Lydia bites her lip. She almost suggests that they go by Kira's house, but honestly, if the Yukimuras have any sense at all, they're already gone, too. "Looks like we're really on our own, huh?" Stiles says quietly.

Lydia just stands there for a minute, clutching Allison's dagger and thinking. She's trying to think not like Lydia Martin, genius, but like Allison and Chris Argent, accomplished fighters and survivors. Chris and Allison had probably realized that the West Coast is a dangerous place to be and had gone where everyone else had - to New York, to the East Coast, where things are at least a little bit safer. She and Stiles have been behaving as though they're stuck in Beacon Hills forever, but that isn't really true, is it? They have the jeep. They have the brains to figure things out. With the right combination of luck and brains, they might have a shot at survival.

"We could go to New York," she says, her gaze returning to Stiles. He gives her a skeptical look. "I'm serious. That's where Scott and Isaac are. Allison and her dad probably headed there, too - it's where everyone's headed."

"That's a good idea in theory, but unless you've got some kind of teleportation machine handy, we can't just  _go_  -,"

"We've got the jeep," Lydia points out. "We're probably going to die no matter where we are, so why not?"

"Lydia, we don't exactly have the resources for a cross-country road trip."

"I think we can manage," Lydia says, with a shrug. "The entire country's been turned into an over-sized parking lot, so we'll find gas some way or another. There's enough food and water at my place to last a little while, if we're careful."

Stiles just stares at her for a second. "You really want to go to New York?"

Lydia shrugs. Honestly, what's tying them to Beacon Hills anymore? All of their friends have left town and their families are presumed dead. Lydia stands by her earlier sentiment; if they don't keep moving, they'll die. Or get bitten. Or slowly go nuts. Even if they die on the way to New York - which is incredibly possible, even probable - would it really be so different from dying here in Beacon Hills? "I think we should try."

Stiles mulls it over for a couple seconds, then looks at her. "Okay."

She raises her eyebrows at him again. "Really? No more arguing?"

Stiles shrugs. "Why bother? I still think it's a crazy idea, but you're right. We're probably gonna die either way."

Lydia crosses the room then, and leads the way out of Allison's bedroom and into the hallway. "Come on, let's get out of here," she says, throwing a last, rueful look around the apartment. When Stiles takes her hand, she doesn't pull away, and together they head back down to the jeep.

Preparing for their impromptu exodus to New York is the easiest part, apparently. They go back to Lydia's house and take every last bit of food and load it into the back of the jeep, along with whatever survival supplies they can think to find - matches, candles, kitchen knives, et cetera. Then they go to Stiles's house and get him some new clothes, plus all the food and supplies that the Stilinskis have stockpiled over the past few months. Stiles gets a little choked up when he has to go into his father's study, but Lydia watches, rather proud, as he blinks back his tears and quickly retrieves a gun and ammunition from his father's safe. He also unearths a book of maps from one of his father's drawers - they're going to need that, if they want to find their way to New York City.

After that, they siphon gas from Stiles's neighbor's car ("Don't worry, he was bitten a few weeks ago - he won't need it," Stiles tells her, when she expresses concern over the ethics of what they're doing) and fill the jeep's tank with it. The gas won't last long enough to move them even a centimeter on the map, Lydia knows, but it's a start. Hopefully she and Stiles are resourceful enough to make this work.

There's really no point in waiting around any longer, so they set off that afternoon. On their way out of town, Stiles is uncharacteristically quiet, and Lydia doesn't say anything at all. It's not every day you leave your hometown behind forever, after all, even if the whole world  _has_  fallen into chaos.

The interstate highways are, as Lydia had predicted, a giant parking lot. People who had frantically tried to evacuate right after the virus hit had only ended up clogging the roads, then abandoning their cars when it grew clear that they had become trapped in miles upon miles of traffic. It's obvious that some people eventually did return for their cars, but others had just left them sitting there, either because they had no reason to retrieve them or because they had died or been infected. Lydia tries not to think about what these cars represent, the hundreds of thousands of lives lost, but it's hard not to dwell on it when every few miles they stop the jeep and steal more gas. Lydia knows on an intellectual level that these cars are abandoned, and whatever gas is in their tanks is only going to waste, but at heart she can't shake the feeling that she's robbing people who are no better off than she is, if they're still alive somewhere.

Stiles seems to realize where her thoughts are, because he fills the car with his typical rambling chatter and asks her lots of questions about nothing in particular. This is another one of those situations where, if anyone had told Lydia about it beforehand, she would have laughed it off and called them nuts. But now, she's actually sort of grateful for Stiles's motormouth. Even if what he's saying is of no real consequence, it distracts her, giving her something -  _someone_  - to focus on besides the dark thoughts lurking in her mind.

This method - driving almost nonstop, with each of them taking turns behind the wheel, and with very frequent stops to find fuel - gets them all the way to the heart of Nevada by the next morning. But the number of cars abandoned along the road gradually gets less and less frequent, and soon, they're going miles without seeing a single vehicle. Lydia can tell that Stiles is getting nervous, judging by the way he's fidgeting and squirming in his seat, but she refuses to panic. "Roll down all the windows," Lydia suggests, "and put on the cruise control." It won't do much, but it should conserve at least a little bit of gas; besides, it's hot as hell and the air flow will do them some good.

Stiles is quiet for a couple minutes, his gaze constantly flicking between the dashboard to the road ahead. "Lydia, we  _really_  gotta get more gas," he says. "The last sign we passed said there's a town five miles ahead, but we're not gonna make it."

Lydia sighs. "Stop the car and turn it off," she says, tiredly reaching up to wipe sweat from her brow. Stiles obediently pulls onto the shoulder and shuts off the engine.

"You think we can walk there and back?" Stiles asks.

"That's a long walk," Lydia says, raising her eyebrows at him. "I was thinking we'd find a car in town, take it, and then come back for the jeep."

" . . . That's a much better idea," Stiles concedes. "One of us should probably stay with the jeep, then."

"Stiles, we haven't seen anyone for miles," Lydia points out. "Besides, I'm not letting you go off alone, and I'm not leaving you here. We'd have no way of knowing if the other was dead."

Stiles can't argue with that logic, so he drives them another couple of miles before the jeep finally runs out of gas. They leave it parked by the side of the road. Lydia carries her bag, loaded with several bottles of water, some snacks, and the gun, and Stiles carries his bat and the map. Together, they set off.

It's stiflingly hot; Lydia feels like she's trying to breathe with a cloth covering her mouth and nose. The sun is behind a cloud for about fifteen blessed minutes, but when the cloud drifts past, the sun shines down at full force. It's so hot, and so bright, and Lydia is  _seriously_  regretting this decision. They should have just waited until nightfall, zombies be damned - but it's too late now. Or is it? How long have they been walking, anyway? She tries to ask Stiles, but she doesn't have the energy to form words.

Stiles asks her something, but his voice is nothing but a tinny echo. Lydia squints at him, then forces out, "I need to . . . sit down for a second . . ."

Lydia's knees buckle a second later, and Stiles, in a surprising display of agility, reaches out and grabs her as she starts to fall. He must be suffering from the heat, too, because he's not strong enough to hold her up, and they both sink to the ground a second later. The asphalt underneath her is painfully hot, but Lydia doesn't have time to focus on that before the entire world fades to black.

When she comes around, she estimates that she must have only been out for thirty seconds, tops, because Stiles hasn't started panicking yet. He's fumbling with the clasp of her backpack, which he's apparently tugged off of her, and a moment later, he's pouring water on her neck and chest. The water is warm, but to Lydia's overheated skin, it feels almost cool. "Quit," she says hoarsely. "Don't waste it."

Stiles leans over her, his head providing enough shadow that Lydia doesn't have to squint quite as much. He's sweating, too, and his cheeks are scarlet. He lifts the water bottle to her lips. "Drink," he says. "Are you okay?"

Lydia gulps down some water, and when she pauses for breath, she replies, "Yeah. I just got too hot. It was stupid of me to keep going." It also doesn't help that she's dealing with the effects of months of malnutrition, but she doesn't bother to get into that.

Stiles gently brushes damp hair off her face and neck. She wonders how she must look right now - face flushed as red as her hair, covered in sweat; she's a complete mess, for sure. The total, unabashed concern for her well-being in Stiles's whiskey brown eyes spawns a sudden feeling in her chest - a warmth that has little to do with how damn hot it is. "You really scared me just then," Stiles admits, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. "Do you need to go back to the jeep? I can make it to the town by myself, really, and -,"

To silence his babbling - at least, Lydia tells herself that's why she does it - she leans up and loosely catches his lips with hers. Stiles tenses up slightly, then relaxes. She thinks back to the time before, when she kissed him in the locker room to stop his panic attack - how his breath had come fast and shaky and then stopped altogether when her lips touched his, how he had tasted slightly salty due to tears he'd wiped away. When Stiles pulls away this time, however, he's not crying, and his breathing is strong and steady.

The Stiles of sophomore year would have jumped for joy, or possibly fainted, at the very  _idea_  of being kissed by Lydia. This Stiles just smiles and gives her that soft look, the one that shouldn't have an effect on her (but does anyway - and when she least expects it.) "Come on," he says, gently grabbing her by the elbows and helping her to her feet. "Let's go."

Lydia shoulders her bag again and they start walking again, this time pausing every few minutes to cool off and drink water. When Stiles takes her hand as they walk and loosely twines their fingers together, Lydia avoids meeting his gaze so that he won't see her holding back a smile. They don't talk at all after that - it's too hot even for Stiles to expend extra energy on speech - but it's a rather comfortable silence.

When they finally reach the little town - both sweaty, flushed, and miserable by that point - Lydia is a bit perturbed by the complete and utter silence about the place. All the town needs is some cartoon tumbleweeds blowing up the main road - it's already got the desert backdrop, after all. As far as Lydia can tell, there's not a single living soul out and about, and really, there might not be any living souls left in the town at all. Fortunately, just like any other town they've passed so far, there are still cars left sitting around. Finding one with a functioning battery is a challenge, but eventually they get lucky. Lydia had never really expected to use her genius-level intellect to hot-wire a car, but these  _are_  desperate times.

After that incident, it's relatively smooth sailing as they pass through Utah and Wyoming and head into Nebraska. Lydia is hesitant to get even a little bit comfortable, because she knows that at almost any moment something horrible and life-threatening could happen. Still, as the miles slip by with fairly little interruption (other than their usual pit-stops to find gas), it's almost possible to forget they're traveling through a deserted wasteland of a country, dodging zombies, illness, and starvation by the skin of their teeth.

Lydia doesn't bring up what happened in Nevada, and neither does Stiles, but to her surprise, things aren't awkward between them. It's a little bit like things were right after she kissed him the first time (minus all the surrounding supernatural drama) - something unspoken has passed between the two of them, but it doesn't weigh heavily on their interactions. It's just a bit more obvious to Lydia this time, this  _thing_ , and she doesn't have any clue of what to do about it now, so she doesn't do anything about it at all.

The evening following the Nevada incident, they stop to check an abandoned car for gas. They're basically in the middle of nowhere, which makes this car's presence rather strange - but Lydia supposes there could be plenty of explanations for why the car has been left out here. Lydia's sitting in the driver's seat (it's her turn to drive) contemplating this while Stiles rustles around outside, siphoning gas from the abandoned car's tank. Lydia shakes off her rather morbid thoughts and gets out of the jeep, figuring she had better stretch her legs and get some fresh air while she can. They haven't seen many zombies in this area so far, which is a good sign that it's okay to leave the safety of the jeep for a few minutes.

Lydia walks around to the front of the Jeep and then, on a whim, climbs up onto the hood and reclines, her legs dangling over the front bumper. It's been two days too long since she's been able to lie down comfortably (the curse of living in a car, even temporarily) and looking up at the stars for a few minutes sounds like a good idea as any. After a minute, Stiles joins her at the front of the jeep and says, "We didn't get much. But it should hold us over for a little while."

"Good," Lydia says, absently. She wants to forget about stressing over fuel, and food, and zombies - at least for a few minutes. When she looks over at Stiles, he's giving her a curious look. "What?"

"Nothing, just - what are you doing?"

"Resting," Lydia says primly. "You should try it sometime."

"I rest plenty," Stiles says, setting down the gas can and the hose and clambering awkwardly onto the Jeep's hood.

"Doesn't seem like it," Lydia says as he leans back next to her, and oh God, is she  _teasing_  him right now? This is getting a bit out of hand - yet Lydia doesn't feel very inclined to stop. "You talk in your sleep, you know."

"I know," Stiles says. "My dad once told me that I can talk more in my sleep than most people can while they're awake."

It's the first time he's mentioned his father since they left Beacon Hills, and Lydia can hear the brittle thread of sadness in his voice. In an effort to keep his spirits up, she reaches out and takes his hand. For a second, everything is quiet except for the sound of crickets chirping and wind rustling. Stiles shifts his attention to the stars, and Lydia does the same.

Lydia's eyes trace the constellations that she can name. Astronomy is not a field she's particularly interested in, but then again, Lydia has dabbled in just about everything at this point. "There's Draco," she says softly, pointing upwards.

"Malfoy?" Stiles responds. Lydia smiles.

"The constellation," she says, and she watches as Stiles searches the sky. "See it? The tail ends between the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper."

"Where's the Dog Star? Sirius?"

"It's not visible during the summer months," Lydia says. "That's where the phrase 'dog days of summer' comes from, actually. The Greeks thought that the reason Sirius wasn't visible was because he was helping the sun heat the earth."

"Well, if we're still alive when it shows up again, will you show me?"

Lydia gives a slightly wry smile at that. "Of course."

Stiles has shifted so that he's right beside her now, with their hands still linked together between them. For a second Lydia wonders if he just doesn't realize how close they are, but no, she can tell by the way he's looking at her that it's intentional. He's looking at her the way plenty of boys have looked at her before - like he wants to kiss her - but in a uniquely  _Stiles_  sort of way. He's looking at her like he's half-expecting her to pull away, like she once might have - but he's also looking at her like she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and her heart swells with a sudden rush of affection for him. So she meets his eyes evenly, and when he finally plucks up his courage a second later, she leans in to meet him halfway.

They kiss for a few moments, and it's nice. Really nice. She's felt alone for so long (ever since the world ended and the dead rose again - no, maybe even before that, when she tried to drown all her doubts and fears by changing boys like clothes), but she's not alone in this moment. In this moment, in this fucked-up world where everything else that Lydia knows has fallen apart, she has Stiles. (It's slowly beginning to dawn on her that he has her, too.)

But of course, Stiles isn't content to let sleeping dogs lie. She can practically feel his mind whirring; it's like there's a hamster on a wheel in his brain, picking up speed with every passing second. He pulls his mouth away from hers rather abruptly, and Lydia arches an eyebrow at him. "Lydia," he says, hesitant.

"Yes?" Lydia says expectantly.

"You . . . you're not kissing me just because we could potentially end up being the last two people on earth, right?"

Lydia tries very hard not to laugh, even though his question is, frankly, absolutely absurd. "I don't have any procreation-related plans, if that's what you're getting at."

"No! I, uh, just meant . . ." He trails off, floundering, and gives her a slightly panicked look, like he's worried that if he keeps talking she's going to climb down off the jeep and run off into the night, never to be seen again.

"You meant am I making out with you because you're the only option," Lydia supplies. "The procreation thing was a joke," she adds dryly, in case it wasn't clear.

"Um, yeah. That's . . . pretty much it."

"No," Lydia says frankly. "I'm not."

"Oh," Stiles says. ". . . Cool."

Lydia can't help but grin a little at that. "Stiles, do you really think you could ever make me do something I don't actually want to do?"

He finally cracks a little smile of his own. "No. That's one of the reasons I like you so much. There are a  _lot_  of reasons, by the way."

"I know," Lydia says, softening slightly. It's hard to be tough on him - even as a joke - when, deep down, she knows exactly why he's bringing this up in the first place. She has rarely ever been forthright with other people about her real feelings. Now might be a good time to be crystal clear, however, if she wants to spare Stiles the anxiety that wondering about her intentions will cause him. "I kissed you back because I wanted to, Stiles. I . . . care about you, you know. A lot."

Stiles is nearly glowing with happiness by the time she finishes her explanation. "It - I don't know what to say. It's just . . ." He's probably about to babble something about how long he's been hoping to hear that, so Lydia cuts him off by kissing him. It's the only method she knows will quiet him for a little while, and she suspects she's going to be utilizing it a bit more often from now on.

After that night, Lydia's worries about being lulled into a false sense of security fade somewhat (probably because, well, she's being lulled into a false sense of security.) Nothing especially shitty happens for a little while, another blissful period of normalcy, and their bizarre little cross-country road trip continues successfully, so Lydia tries not to stress about it. But apparently, nothing in their new lives can be uneventful. This time, however, the trouble doesn't come from zombies.

Their journey takes them right past Chicago. So far, it's the most populated area they've been through, which is a good thing - the further east they go, the safer things are supposed to be, after all. Still, Chicago is a ghost of its former self. It's unsettling to see a little town or small city so deserted, but a metropolis like Chicago? It's downright disturbing.

They're a few miles outside of the city and Lydia is trying to get some rest. Her normal body rhythm is totally ruined; she drove all night while Stiles dozed in the passenger seat, and it's morning now, which is really throwing her off. Plus, she's paranoid, her eyes constantly flicking open while they're stopped to refuel, checking the area around the jeep for zombies. The undead aren't known for their ability to sneak up on people, but the memory of the incident at the evac site is still fresh in her mind, so despite her desperate need to sleep, she just can't shut her brain off.

Finally, she forces her eyes shut and tries to make herself comfortable, although at first it seems like a losing battle. Just when she's slowly starting to relax, she hears voices outside the jeep.

"Whoa, whoa!" Stiles says, his words muffled but the panicky tone clear as a bell. Lydia's eyes shoot open immediately, her heart thudding in her chest.

She shifts in her seat so that she can see Stiles through the rear driver's side window; he's got his hands up and his face has gone rather pale. Someone speaks to him in a low, commanding tone from somewhere behind the jeep, and after a brief hesitation and a glance through the glass at her, Stiles slowly walks out of Lydia's line of sight. She twists around fully, and through the rear window, she sees something that makes her blood run cold - a woman pointing a shotgun at Stiles.

Lydia goes into crisis control mode almost immediately, trying to remain calm and figure something out. She can hear Stiles talking - he sounds like he's trying to reason with the stranger. Careful to avoid being seen through the back window, Lydia reaches behind her seat and feels around until her hand bumps something cold and hard lying in the floorboard - the barrel of Stiles's father's handgun. With shaky hands, Lydia stuffs the gun into the waistband of her shorts, adjusting her shirt so that it covers the gun (unfortunately, the shirt is too thin to really disguise the shape of the pistol, but it will have to do.)

Lydia takes a steadying breath and opens her door before slowly getting out of the car. "Who's that?" the woman asks sharply, having clearly not expected for Stiles to have a companion. When Lydia rounds the back end of the jeep, the shotgun is pointed at her head. Lydia swallows hard but refuses to let it cow her. She's been through much worse than this, after all - although it really is impossible to be completely okay with having a gun pointed at you, no matter  _what_  you've been through.

"What do you want?" Lydia asks, as calmly as she can. She can feel Stiles practically staring holes into the side of her face, but she doesn't dare make eye contact with him. She needs Stiles to be still and quiet; his mouth has a tendency to get him in trouble, after all.

"Your jeep and all your supplies," the woman replies. She's tense and her tone is cold, but there's a hint of a quaver in her voice, betraying just how desperate and afraid this woman really is. She abruptly shifts to aim the shotgun at Stiles again, as if she isn't sure which one of them poses a greater threat. "Give me your keys or -,"

The woman is cut off by the approach of a boy. He's probably four years younger than Stiles and Lydia, tops - but he's definitely the woman's child. He appears from behind a nearby building and walks towards them slowly, his expression somber. Lydia waits for him to stand next to his mother and then she thinks a quick  _I'm so sorry_ before drawing the gun with fumbling hands.

"Let us go," she blurts, pointing the pistol at the boy's chest

The woman leaps to the side, shielding her son, but now the gun is aimed at her instead. Lydia edges closer to Stiles instinctively, and he lurches forward as if he's going to throw himself in front of her - however, he seems to think better of it once he realizes that any more sudden movements might only make things worse. After a small eternity of silence, the woman slowly lowers her shotgun, and Lydia lets out a shaky, relieved breath.

"I'm sorry," she says, as she and Stiles simultaneously start backing towards the jeep. Lydia doesn't take her gaze off the strangers until she gets safely back into the jeep, and she's pretty sure the look of absolute despair in the woman's eyes is going to haunt her for the rest of her life.

Stiles turns the car on hurriedly and leaves the mother and son behind as fast as he can. Lydia doesn't realize how badly her hands are shaking in her lap until Stiles reaches over and gently places his hand over both of hers. With one hand still on the wheel, he peels her fingers away from the pistol's grip and takes it from her, giving her a concerned look. "Lydia," he murmurs.

She looks over at him, and he says, "That was really brave of you."

"I pointed a gun at a kid," she points out, her voice low. It's strange that this should affect her so much, after everything they've seen and done before.

"Lydia . . . you weren't going to shoot him."

"I might have shot  _her_ ," Lydia says. "If she'd tried to take the jeep, or if she'd hurt us."  _If she had shot you, I really don't know what would have happened_ , Lydia almost says, but doesn't. It's too raw, too frightening, to even think about.

"You wouldn't have," Stiles says, shaking his head, his eyes on the road ahead but his tone gentle. "I know you, Lydia, and you never would have killed them. Scaring them was all it took and you did it."

Lydia still feels guilty, even if all she'd done was scare the hell out of them. Those people are much worse off than she and Stiles are, and are acting out of desperation, so it just felt  _wrong_  to threaten them - but Stiles and Lydia simply can't afford to lose the jeep. They'll never get to New York if they do, and at this point, making it to New York (and, of course, staying alive) is really all that matters. They've come too far to give up or let all of this be taken away, and Lydia tries to console herself with that thought, even if it feels like a hollow sentiment.

Lydia doesn't know when or how she manages to fall asleep, but her dreams are filled with the moans and growls of zombies and the desperate, lost faces of the living. Still, her body gets some much needed rest, even though her mind doesn't feel particularly refreshed when she wakes up. To her immense surprise, it's already mid-afternoon; she's slept clean through half of the day. Stiles is driving, of course, and he's munching from a bag of trail mix (a staple of their diet, right alongside crackers, water, and canned vegetables.) When he notices that she's awake, he smiles slightly and offers her the bag. "You hungry?" he asks. "I saved the apricots for you."

She can't help but smile a little as she takes the bag from him and digs in. It's a little depressing that something which she once would have found mediocre at best -  _dried fruit_  - is now something to look forward to. Maybe when they finally reach New York City, they'll get the chance to eat a real meal again. That thought reminds Lydia, and she asks, "How much farther?"

"A little over two hours."

Lydia gives him a surprised look. "Are you serious?"

"Totally," Stiles says.

"That means you've been driving for eight hours," Lydia says, glancing at the clock on the dashboard to verify the time. "You should have woken me up and let me take over -,"

"No way," Stiles says, shaking his head. "You drove all night last night. I'm fine with driving all day. Besides, it didn't feel right to wake you up."

Lydia pops a dried sliver of apricot into her mouth and says, "Well, I still think I should -,"

"Uh-uh," Stiles cuts her off. "Eat. Rest. You need it."

Lydia wants to argue that she doesn't need to be coddled just because she had a minor freak-out earlier, but honestly, what's the point? If Stiles is still okay with driving, she might as well let him, and then take over when he gets tired. They've only got two more hours -  _two hours_ \- until they reach NYC, and Lydia's too happy about that to bother with arguing.

"It feels kind of weird, doesn't it," Stiles says after a moment of quiet. "To be this  _close_ , I mean."

"A little," Lydia muses. "It's hard to believe." She supposes, deep down, that she never really figured they'd make it this far, which explains why it's so strange to be so near to their goal.

"What are we going to do when we get there?" Stiles asks. "I mean, there's no guarantee we'll find anyone we know. New York City is a big place and all - plus, they could be . . . well, you know."

"They're not dead," Lydia says firmly. "You seem to be forgetting that we hang out with werewolves. And werewolf hunters."

Stiles nods. "You're right. But we still have to find them."

"We'll figure something out," Lydia says. Crossing that bridge when they come to it isn't a plan she's very comfortable with, but it's their only option right now. "We usually do, don't we?"

Stiles smiles slightly. "We do."

Stiles's right hand is resting on his leg while he steers with his left, and without even thinking about it, Lydia reaches over and links their hands. She's been holding hands with boys since fourth grade, but she likes holding Stiles's hand the best. It makes her feel safe - like she can face whatever supernatural creature life throws at them if he's beside her. And now, as she looks at him in the driver's seat, she thinks,  _we can do this. We're going to make it._

The next two hours pass slowly, the way time always does when you're looking forward to something, but finally, the miles separating them and New York City slip away. By the almost-gone light of the sun, Lydia can see skyscrapers in the distance. She and Stiles are still holding hands, and she squeezes his fingers gently. "Look."

He nods. "I see," he says, his voice heavy with relief.

"You still okay to drive?" Lydia asks, eyeing him. He's starting to look rather weary, and she doesn't blame him - driving for long periods of time, even with frequent stops, can be as exhausting as physical labor.

"I can get us there," Stiles says, right before stifling a large yawn. "I'm fine, I promise," he adds hurriedly.

Lydia is about to insist that he pull over this instant when she notices their exit coming up. "Turn there," she says, pointing, and Stiles obeys.

Their map doesn't cover the ins and outs of New York City, so they have to wing it, but Lydia knows they're going the right way when she sees a military jeep patrolling the area. The soldier driving the jeep indicates that they should stop, and they do. He approaches with a gun in his hands, but Lydia doesn't feel threatened by it - he's here to help them, after all. "You kids refugees?" he asks, once Stiles rolls his window down. Their disheveled and sunburned appearance must give them away.

They both nod, and when Stiles explains that they're on the way to the city, the soldier turns to point them in the right direction. "Take the tunnel to Manhattan. Curfew starts at eight, so hurry."

They've got about thirty minutes, so they haul ass to Manhattan. The roads are fairly deserted, but Lydia chalks that up to the fact that it's nearly time for everyone to be inside. When they make it to Manhattan, they're stopped yet again, this time by a police officer. "Where are you guys headed?"

" . . . We don't really know," Stiles says honestly.

"We're refugees from the West Coast," Lydia says, by way of explanation. She's starting to feel a little bit nervous that they don't have a plan or a final destination in mind, especially now that they've got a time constraint. Lydia's not exactly sure what will happen to them if they're out after curfew, but she'd rather not find out. The police officer advises them to head to a particular subway station on 14th Street and Sixth Avenue - according to him, they'll see signs along the way telling them what to do and where to go. They take him at his word, since it's the only idea they have at this point.

The concrete jungle of Manhattan is complex and intimidating, even when it's got a mere fraction of its former population and activity. Fortunately, the signs that the cop spoke of are fairly helpful, giving directions on how to reach places where they can receive help, including the subway station they're looking for. Even though Lydia feels anxious due to the approaching curfew, she still thinks they have a good shot of making it safely to the station - that is, until the jeep's engine starts rumbling suspiciously.

For a minute, neither she or Stiles comment on it, as if ignoring the problem will make it go away. But when the engine starts legitimately sputtering, Stiles lets out a quiet, "You've  _got_  to be fucking kidding me."

"What is it?" Lydia asks, nervous.

"I didn't see the check engine light," Stiles says, staring at the tiny green light as if he can make it turn off with sheer willpower. "Crap. How did I not see that?"

 _Because you're exhausted and you should have let me drive_ , Lydia almost snaps, but she resists the urge because Stiles is mentally kicking himself enough already, if his stream of muttered curse words is any indication. "Okay, don't panic," Lydia says, both to herself and to Stiles. "Stop the car. Maybe we can figure out what's wrong."

Stiles obediently pulls to the side of the street and stops, and they both get out. Unfortunately, it's too dark now to really tell what's going on, but judging by the acrid smell coming from the engine, the issue lies with the battery. Even if she could pinpoint the exact source of the problem, Lydia doesn't have any tools or chemicals to use, and it's not like they can just whip out a cellphone and call a mechanic. They've finally come to an obstacle that can't be run away from or riddled out.

"This is all my fault," Stiles says. "God, I'm so sorry, Lydia -,"

"You couldn't have magically prevented car troubles, Stiles," Lydia points out, pulling the hood down. They don't have time to waste playing the blame game, and Lydia's already gathering her wits, trying to figure out their next course of action. "We're only, what, six blocks away? We'll go on foot."

"But the curfew -,"

"What are they going to do, ground us? If we find a cop or a soldier, that's a good thing. They can help us," Lydia points out. Without giving Stiles any more time to argue, she heads around to the passenger's side of the jeep and starts gathering her things. She takes her bag, the gun, and Allison's dagger, while Stiles grabs the bat. Leaving their food and most of their water behind makes Lydia nervous, but she doesn't comment on it. She'd rather make it to the subway station than sit here and wait for help that might never show up. They can always come back for the jeep if they need to, after all. Still, Stiles pats the hood lovingly before they walk off, his expression forlorn, as if he's leaving behind a cherished friend.

Now that they're actually walking the streets instead of driving on them, it's eerily quiet. Lydia finds herself seriously hoping that a cop or a soldier will ride by soon and give them a lift, but so far, they haven't seen anything of the sort. Manhattan is a big place, after all, and every street can't be patrolled at once.

"This is so weird," Stiles says, his voice hushed and his dark eyes flicking around edgily. "You know, all the movies show New York as this crazy place, but seeing it like this, all deserted . . . it's just _wrong_."

"I know what you mean," Lydia says, because of course she does; they're typically on the same wavelength when it comes to being creeped out. She reaches for his hand, but she never gets the chance to complete the gesture - her fingers have just barely brushed his when he's snatched away from her.

Stiles's terrified yelp is all she really processes at first; she sees the large gray shape appear from the mouth of the alley beside them and grab him, but it takes her brain a couple of seconds to catch up with what's happening. By the time it hits her -  _a zombie, oh God, oh no_ \- Stiles has been thrown to the concrete like a rag doll. She hears an audible snap when he hits the ground, followed immediately by a yell of pain, then a scream of, " _Lydia_!" The zombie starts dragging Stiles towards the alley, groaning all the while, hardly phased by the way Stiles is desperately trying to crawl away.

Lydia raises Allison's dagger aloft and dives at the zombie, stabbing it in the neck as viciously as she possibly can. Stiles is yelling and flailing below, but he's not strong enough to escape, and the zombie seems pretty intent on taking a bite out of him - so intent that it doesn't even react to having a dagger plunged into the side of its neck. Lydia's starting to panic, but then she thinks  _the bat, where's the bat_ \- and when she spots Stiles's bat, lying on the ground a foot or two away, she grabs it and throws all her weight into a swing. With a sickening crack, the zombie's head leaves its shoulders, decomposing flesh and bone giving away under the force of the bat and splattering Lydia and Stiles with body matter.

There's a second of silence before Stiles drags himself out from under the zombie's twitching, headless body. He's shaking like a leaf and his left arm is hanging limply at his side. He reaches up with his right hand and touches his hair, right above his temple - his fingers come back stained with red. "L-Lydia," he stammers, giving her a slightly dazed look.

Lydia realizes she's shaking just as badly as he is, if not worse, and she's clutching the bat for dear life. Just then, she hears another groan, but it's not coming from the decapitated head - three figures are lurking in the alleyway. "Run," she says. "Stiles,  _run_."

They both take off, but Stiles is having difficulty. Judging by the way his breath is coming out in ragged sobs, jostling his arm so much is causing him searing pain. They make it about two blocks before he trips and falls, sprawling halfway in the street. Lydia stops immediately, her own breath coming fast and terrified, her vision swimming slightly (clearly, the months she's spent on a post-apocalyptic diet have not been very kind to her body.) She drops to her knees next to Stiles and asks once she can control her voice again, "Are you okay?"

He seems to have made it past intense pain and is now at the point of nearly losing consciousness. His eyes are half-lidded, his head lolling slightly, as she helps him roll over. "My arm," he manages, with a weak grimace.

"Do you think it's broken?"

He doesn't respond, his eyes closing completely. He goes limp and still.

Lydia gives him a quick once-over. With all the zombie-matter on him, it's impossible to tell if he's bleeding anywhere other than his head, but she doesn't think he's been bitten, which is a relief. Stiles being killed is one thing - one terrible, awful thing - but Lydia doesn't know how she'd handle him getting infected. She'd have to leave him behind - or worse, she'd have to kill him, and she doesn't think she's capable of putting  _anyone_  down like that, let alone  _Stiles_.

He's still out of it, so she moves from her knees to a seated position on the curb. She tugs him into a more comfortable position, with his head pillowed in her lap. Blood from his face smears onto her shorts, but they've seen better days anyway. With one hand, she grabs the hem of her shirt and presses the fabric gently to his head, murmuring soothing nonsense when he flinches weakly. Absentmindedly, she starts stroking his cheek with her other hand. "Just rest for a second, okay?" she says, although she's not really sure he's capable of hearing her and actually comprehending right now. "Then we have to go."

With her hand still cupping his cheek, she looks over his injured arm. There's nothing she can do for him right now except get him to safety, and that might take a while at this rate. She glances around nervously at that thought, almost positive that at any moment, the zombies they'd seen will come around the corner. Finally, she can stand to wait no longer, and she turns her attention back to Stiles. "Stiles," she murmurs. "We need to go, baby." The term of endearment slips out unintentionally, but the word seems to galvanize Stiles.

He opens his eyes, and although he still seems dazed and disoriented, the fact that he's conscious is a good sign. Lydia gives him a moment to brace himself, her gaze flicking to the end of the street once more. Her stomach drops when she sees three figures at the end of the sidewalk - the zombies have found them. But before Lydia has time to do anything more than utter a frightened "Stiles?", the zombies are backlit by headlights as a black Hummer swerves onto the street. The Hummer pulls to a stop and someone leans out of the passenger window and points a handgun at the zombies.

Gunfire rings out, and Lydia ducks her head instinctively, clutching Stiles tightly to herself. As it turns out, there is no need to duck; it only takes the gunman three bullets to take out the zombies. A moment later, the shooter gets out of the car - when Lydia looks up, she sees that it's a young woman, clad in all black and still holding a gun at the ready. "Help!" Lydia calls out, her voice shrill. "Over here!"

The girl approaches, her expression wary. She stops about fifteen feet away from them. Stiles and Lydia both remain absolutely still, conscious of the fact that she has her gun raised. "Are you infected?" she asks.

"No," Lydia says immediately. She's aware of how terrible they must look - Stiles is still lying halfway in her lap, and they're both splattered with blood, so it's perfectly logical for this girl to be suspicious. "We're refugees. We need help."

Just then, someone else gets out of the car. "Wait a minute, I know those kids," a familiar voice says. "Lydia? Stiles?"

"Mr. Argent!" Lydia blurts, as Chris approaches. He seems every bit as surprised to see her as she is to see him.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" he asks. He breezes past the woman, throwing her a glance as he says, "Mary, these kids are friends of my daughter's. It's okay."

The young woman relaxes her grip on her gun before lowering it and sliding it into a holster on her thigh. Lydia chooses to focus her full attention on Chris now that the gun is out of the equation. "How did you guys get here?"

"We drove," Stiles offers, weakly attempting to sit up. Lydia realizes she's still holding onto him for dear life and loosens her hold, but only so that he can sit up.

"All the way from Beacon Hills - by yourselves," Chris clarifies, raising his eyebrows in a way that vaguely reminds Lydia of Allison. If Chris is here, alive and well, then Allison is probably safe, too, and that takes a weight off of Lydia's shoulders that she hadn't realized she'd been carrying. She's been too busy worrying about keeping herself and Stiles alive to spend time actively fretting about the safety of her friends, but the worries have been there all along, lingering under the surface.

Without waiting for Lydia or Stiles to say anything else, Chris motions towards the car. "Come on, we'll take you to the refugee center," he says. "You can get that arm looked at," he adds, nodding at Stiles, who is loosely cradling his injured arm to his chest. Stiles clambers awkwardly to his feet, and Lydia follows with considerably more grace. The four of them get into the Hummer, and once they're on the move, Chris explains, in brief detail, where they're going and what they're doing. He and the woman, Mary, are allowed out after curfew because of their considerable experience and skill with weapons - Chris doesn't mention whether his friend is also a former werewolf hunter, and Lydia doesn't ask. They're basically allowed to kill any zombies they see, which Lydia counts as a blessing, considering she and Stiles would still be running from zombies if not for their timely appearance.

Chris takes them to the subway station that they'd been headed originally, and by car, it's only a five minute trip. Once they're underground, Lydia understands why it's called a 'refugee center' - the subway station has basically been converted into a makeshift infirmary and help center. It's relatively empty, presumably because it's after curfew, but Lydia immediately recognizes another familiar face among the few people milling about, her outfit marking her as a volunteer. "Ms. McCall!"

Melissa looks up at the sound of her name, and her expression goes from surprise to delight to concern in a matter of seconds. Almost immediately, she hustles Stiles over to a cot near the turnstiles, and another volunteer nurse approaches Lydia. When Lydia makes it clear that she's uninjured, she's ushered away from Stiles, but since he's with Melissa now, she's not too worried about his safety. Lydia is taken to a camping-style portable shower in a slightly more secluded corner of the subway station, where she's allowed to quickly rinse the blood and grime off of herself in blissful privacy.

Everything feels like it's happening in a blur. Lydia can hardly believe that they're here, alive and (mostly) well, when only days ago, New York had been some unreachable, far-off safe haven. She realizes she's in shock because deep down, some part of her must have assumed they would never make it all the way, but she just hasn't been able to shake the feeling yet. When the tepid water of the camping shower runs out, she mechanically puts on clean clothes (well,  _cleaner_  clothes) from her bag and steps out of the tiny stall, her feet automatically carrying her to Stiles's side. He's lying down on the cot now, eyes closed, and someone - presumably Melissa - has put his arm in a sling and bandaged the nasty scrape on his head. He doesn't stir when Lydia carefully sits down on the edge of the cot, but he desperately needs sleep, so Lydia doesn't mind at all.

Melissa approaches again and starts talking, but Lydia just nods along absentmindedly and watches Stiles's chest rise and fall slowly. The only thing that shakes Lydia out of her thoughts is when Melissa says, "I'll try to get in touch with your parents as soon as possible . . ."

Lydia's gaze snaps up to meet Melissa's. "My parents?" she repeats, her voice cracking slightly. "My parents are dead." She hasn't had much of an opportunity to grieve yet, as surviving by any means necessary has taken precedence - perhaps, when she's settled in here, she'll be able to mourn them the way she needs to.

Melissa shakes her head. "Lydia, they made it onto the plane with us. I'm sure they'll be overjoyed when they hear that  _you're_  alive. Finding them might take a few days, but I'll do my best."

Lydia just sits there for a second, absorbing the idea that her parents are here, somewhere in New York City,  _alive_  (that is, if they haven't died in the brief time since their arrival.) She'd been so quick to write them off as dead, probably subconsciously trying to save herself some time in the grieving process, and now there's a chance she might find them again. It's almost too good to be true, but for now, Lydia's just going to hang onto the idea that she might not be an orphan after all.

Speaking of orphans - Lydia's gaze falls to Stiles again (still sleeping peacefully) and she questions in a hushed tone, "What about the sheriff?" It's not out of the realm of possibility, is it? Finding his bloodied and torn jacket didn't mean anything, really. Jackets are removable, after all. Stiles has barely had a chance to grieve either, and if he can still be spared of some pain . . .

The sorrowful look on Melissa's face tells Lydia everything she needs to know and more. "Oh," Lydia says, biting her lower lip. It isn't fair, not in the slightest, but it seems like few things in this world really are.

Melissa is quiet for a moment, but then she says, "He's a strong kid, even if he doesn't look like it. He'll make it."

Lydia nods, and says, "Thanks for everything, Ms. McCall."

Melissa gives a smile that lights up her face, despite the familiar exhaustion and sadness hiding in her eyes. So that's where Scott gets that smile from. "Of course, sweetheart," she says. Another volunteer beckons to her from across the room then, and Melissa walks away briskly to tend to other business. Lydia and Stiles are left (sort of) alone, and after a moment, Lydia carefully leans back so that she's lying down next to Stiles. It's not exactly comfortable - the cot isn't built for two people, and Stiles's long limbs are taking up most of the space - but she doesn't want to be away when he wakes up. If he's going to wake up in an unfamiliar place, Lydia decides, here and now, that she's going to be by his side.

Lydia's not exactly sure how or when she manages to fall asleep in such an uncomfortable position, but she wakes up to the sound of soft, familiar voices nearby. She shifts slightly without opening her eyes, trying to release some of the tension in her neck, and hears a voice whisper, "I think she's awake, Scott."

Finally, Lydia forces her eyes open, and the first person she locks eyes with, to her surprise, is Kira Yukimura. Kira looks much the same as she did when Lydia last saw her months ago, except she's lopped off a lot of her long black hair (presumably for convenience.) "Good morning," Kira says, as if this is the most normal situation in the world.

"Hi," Lydia says, stunned. It's then that she sees Scott approaching. Trying to avoid waking Stiles, Lydia carefully gets up off the cot, and Scott immediately envelops her in a tight hug. His presence, strong and solid and good, is almost too much to bear, and when Lydia pulls away, she reaches up to quickly wipe at damp eyes. She's smiling now, and when she turns her attention to Kira again, she pulls the other girl in for a hug, too. It's just so good to see them,  _her friends_ , alive and healthy, that she can hardly contain herself.

"We thought we'd never see you guys again," Scott tells her, smiling. "But here you are."

"Here we are," Lydia says, with a shaky laugh.

"But how?" Kira asks, her expression so earnest, so bright. She and Scott really are two of a kind, blessed with the ability to make everything somehow feel alright.

Lydia's gaze drifts to Stiles. It's a long story, really, and she only wants to tell it once, if she can - preferably with Stiles awake to help her. "Lots of driving," Lydia says, her gaze lingering on Stiles for a second longer before flicking back to meet Kira's again. She avoids meeting Scott's eyes, mostly because she can practically  _feel_  him putting the pieces together about her and Stiles. That's another thing she doesn't want to get into until later, after she's had a chance to talk to Stiles.

Before Scott has a chance to say anything - although his pleasantly surprised grin says more than enough - Lydia catches sight of another familiar face over his shoulder. The subway station is much more crowded than last night, full of refugees seeking all sorts of assistance, but Lydia would know her best friend anywhere. "Allison!" Lydia blurts, pushing past Scott and Kira.

She and Allison meet in the middle and hug for a long time. For once, Lydia actually allows herself to cry openly, pressing her face into Allison's shoulder and weeping quietly. She's just a mess of happiness and relief, and it's so  _good_  to have her best friend back. "I lost your ring dagger," she suddenly blubbers into the fabric of Allison's shirt.

"What?" Allison says, half laughing and half confused. She's sniffling, too, Lydia notes.

"Your Chinese ring dagger," Lydia says, pulling back and hurriedly wiping her face. "I found it in your room and took it, and then I stabbed a zombie with it. I left it in the zombie. But in my defense, there were other zombies that I had to worry about."

Allison looks even more confused now, and Lydia gives up on explaining and waves her hand vaguely. "I'll tell you everything later," she says. "When I'm not a mess."

A second later, Stiles says blearily, "Lydia? S'everything okay?"

Lydia turns around to see him squinting over at her with sleepy eyes. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Are you crying?" he asks, probably recognizing the quavery tone in her voice. A second later, he finally wakes up enough to recognize all the people who are standing around him. He immediately sits upright. "Oh - oh my  _God_. Scott!"

Scott practically dives at him, and Stiles immediately wraps his good arm around his best friend in a tight hug. They then proceed to have a reunion that's teary enough to rival Allison and Lydia's. Lydia smiles faintly at them, then gives Isaac a quick, tight hug when he ambles over from his position lurking behind Allison. Everyone is talking and laughing and  _alive_ , and Scott has loudly proclaimed that Stiles is going to live with him, and Lydia too, until they find her parents. Allison is still hung up on the fact that Lydia stabbed a zombie in the neck with a ring dagger, and Isaac and Kira just look amused by all of the fuss.

Finally, Stiles is cleared to leave his cot, and they all head out as a group to find the Jeep and see if anything can be done to get it running again. Stiles ends up bringing up the rear, walking slowly to avoid jostling his arm, which is still pinned to his chest by the sling. Lydia walks alongside him because honestly, at his side is where she's most comfortable any more. It doesn't take long at all for him to take her hand with his good one and twine their fingers together. "So," he says. "We made it."

"I always knew we would," Lydia says loftily, and Stiles grins.

"You did not."

She cracks, a smile toying with the corners of her mouth. "Oh, shut up."

Stiles's gaze rests on her for a second, his eyes narrowed slightly thanks to the sun, and then he turns his gaze forward. "So . . . now that we're here, you're not rethinking what you said, are you? About not just kissing me because I was the only guy around?"

Her smiles slips slightly, and she studies him for a second, trying to read his expression. He glances over at her again, and his eyes are  _twinkling_. He's joking, damn him. "Shut  _up_ , Stiles," she repeats, warmth and affection lacing her tone.

Allison glances back at them, her expression bright with amusement - apparently they aren't as quiet as they thought. Lydia finds it hard to care; what's the point of hiding anything? Every moment could be their last, and now that Lydia's got her friends -  _her pack_  - around her again, she intends to use those moments wisely.


End file.
